Back at the fabulous pool side of Hotel Amitie in Bamako for a couple of days. It is quiet and nearly empty here: I hear that even Bamako has suffered from a turn down in visitors after the recent events.

Birgit virtually pushed me out of the Djenne Djenno gate. She told me I needed to get outta there, because I was becoming unpleasant. This was undoubtedly true. It started because I had done an unwise inspection of the rubbish disposal area behind the hotel. It was unwise because this activity should only be engaged in under auspicious stars. NOT at full moon since I have lunatic tendencies, and I mean that in the literal sense that I am badly affected by the full moon. It is inevitable that I will have a crise de rage when I notice that noone has been following any of the rubbish disposal instructions that I have put in place. Africans think that my rubbish disposal ideas are symptoms of a deranged or at least severely neurotic mind. As readers of this journal will remember – it is after all not the first time that I rant on about this!- , it is just a question of a three way system: the stuff that rots go into the compost heap, where it snuggles up to the donkey and horse kaka. The burnable stuff is supposed to be burned every day, and the indestructible stuff like broken glass, tin cans etc is buried in a deep hole which is later covered with earth and a new hole is dug etc. Anyway, I did have, predictably, my crise de rageas usual.
More worryingly, Iater I did something I never ever do, and that is to be unpleasant to some hotel guests. There are hardly any people here, but last Sunday there were 6 hotel guests. I decided we all needed cheering up so I called my griots- the little orchestra that play here every Sunday when we are full. I thereby wiped out any profit of the evening. Nevermind. But then one elderly couple suddenly told me that they were not even going to have dinner! That meant that I would actually be losing out on the evening since I had to pay for the orchestra. ‘What? You are not eating here either?’ I snapped irritably to the nice elderly couple. ‘Well, there is no point of calling in the orchestra then! ‘ They looked at me rather taken aback and I stomped off, later to regret this outburst, telling them that of course they could watch the orchestra anyway, and they didn’t need to eat. It was too late and they never joined the evening, which turned out to be very nice: we were finally joined by a group of people from town who had dinner too, so it all turned out OK in the end…
But Birgit sent me away…
So here I am indulging in some popular culture: I am finally reading Stieg Larssen’s “The girl who played with Fire’, having resisted it a very long time for some reason but now I am helplessly hooked...
Back to Djenne tomorrow, laden with Christmas goodies, including a Santa Claus outfit for Boubakar the Gardener!